


stop being cruel

by Apfelessig



Series: The Good Part [1]
Category: Turn (TV 2014), Turn: Washington's Spies
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dirty Talk, Fantasizing, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Frustration, Starts off Ben/Gamble then turns into Tallster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25924348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apfelessig/pseuds/Apfelessig
Summary: Ben wants Caleb, but can't have him. The alternative is worse, but it's the best he might get.(With apologies to the fandom and Sackett.)
Relationships: Benjamin Tallmadge/Lieutenant Gamble (Turn), Caleb Brewster/Benjamin Tallmadge
Series: The Good Part [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1891612
Comments: 16
Kudos: 18





	stop being cruel

**Author's Note:**

> _I feel like I’m blind  
>  I’m barely alive  
> Don’t know what to fight  
> My foe undefined_
> 
> _I’ve been tricked a thousand times  
>  Never tried to compromise  
> Oh, what is the Truth  
> Tell me the Truth  
>  **Stop being cruel**_  
>  \-- Unlike Pluto, ["Cruel"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NvNtqJJ5EK8)
> 
> Fic inspired after listening to the [uncannily appropriate lyrics](https://genius.com/Unlike-pluto-cruel-lyrics) of the above song.

New rule for departmental meetings, Ben decides. Anyone with a salary under $110K keeps their mouth shut. It had been so close to the end, too. Minutes to go before they might have ushered in an office record and stuck to the meeting agenda. But no, some pipsqueak junior had to make a flippant aside and their CEO, bright-eyed and keen to give the new hirees a voice at the table, had considered it "worth following up on".

Now Ben has to spend his Friday evening putting the final polish on an overeagerly written report that would be read maybe once before being archived as an alternative scenario. The only consolation is he's not the only one suffering. Gamble's opinion was drafted in as the relevant consultant in that area, and so while Ben's ass is on the line for whatever idea his junior has come up with, Gamble's signature bears equal weight.

The final draft is some thirty-odd pages, piled neatly on the table in front of him.

Ben stands over the desk, pen poised, reading carefully. Gamble stands, too, nearby. Neither feels easy sitting in the other's presence.

The report is technical and the lines blur in the darkening twilight. There's a blatant typo that he's somehow overlooked the previous ninety-nine times and as he circles it, he misses Gamble moving in closer. He turns to the last page and he freezes when he feels the slow caress of what is undeniably Gamble's hand moving up his leg.

The advance is not entirely out of the blue. In fact, Ben is the one who initiated things at their most recent office party. This happened shortly after a cash-strapped Caleb had moved in with Ben, gotten drunk, called Anna and stayed out all night and come back in the morning mumbling excuses and lying through his teeth. Not that his friend owed him any explanations. Not that trysts were a new thing in their friend group.

So Ben had gone to the office party and had had more than a few, and in lieu of sending his fist through a window, he'd decided to push Gamble into the men's room instead.

He's been regretting it ever since.

"This is not the time," he says. "I want this report done."

"Don't mind me," Gamble says. He strokes a narrow strip lazily up Ben's inner thigh.

"I'm serious, knock it off."

"We've been at it for hours. Everyone else has left."

Ben would love to blame that on his colleague, but whatever else Gamble is, he's competent and clever. They've been working flat-out and it's put a strain on them both. Gamble's ministrations sing a siren's song of stress relief.

"That was a one-time thing," he says, and whether he reminds Gamble or himself is unclear.

"Ahh, Tallmadge, there's no sense in playing like you don't want it."

One month, three weeks, his mental counter helpfully supplies. That's how long it's been.

 _You work with this man_ , Ben thinks. _There's literally no worse option._

Well, there is. But he lives with that one.

"You're not reading."

He isn't. The report feels foreign.

Gamble's hand burrows deeply into the cleft of his thighs, fingertips brushing his sac through the trousers. It's bold enough that Ben stifles a gasp.

"You've got some nerve," he mutters.

"And you've yet to stop me."

"What're you getting out of this?" He needs to remember what this is and what this isn't.

"I get to cross something off my list I've been wanting to do for a while."

"What's that?"

"You." So simple. "Don't overthink it. I'm only after what's freely given." One hand firmly stuck between Ben's legs, the other roams up the expanse of his back, edging around his waist. "You can think about your man, if you like. I don't mind."

"Who?"

"Your roommate. The whaler boy."

Gamble's ready for when Ben jerks and steps in tightly, wedging him against the desk. He's immovable, solid and muscled. Unless Ben is prepared to start a real fight, he's not going anywhere. His heart pounds.

"Shut up."

"Not my type, speaking for meself. But no accounting for taste. It's clear he's found a home in your head. Taken up roost, hasn't he?"

If Ben grits his teeth enough, maybe Gamble's mouth will shut too.

"Must be torture, living with him. Waiting to say something. Waiting for him to do something." A sigh. "Only he don't, does he? He doesn't touch you at all. Not like this."

Fingers push into the ridge of his buttocks, straining the fabric, while his other hand snakes around to palm him through the front of his trousers. 

A hissed grunt slips out. It's not fair, because it's true. He thinks of Caleb and he thinks of a cheer that rivals the morning sun, chuckles over burnt pancakes because _shite the stove's too hot_ , late night beers and a hockey game and a foot of space between them on the couch. That stupid fucking smile in that stupid fucking beard. It's so platonic Ben wants to scream.

"Ah, he wakes," Gamble purrs, and he's warm against Ben's back, warm in the worst way. Ben can't hide his erection from him, not when it's pushing against his hand, not when Ben's pushing into him, eyes closed against the truth of it.

"Tell me about him," Gamble murmurs. He cups Ben's bulge, clawing up and around with his fingers before dragging his palm down again.

"Ngh," is all Ben offers because _No_ , he can't bear to bring Caleb into this room any more than he already has.

"Alright," Gamble says, evenly, and his voice has dropped to a monotone mumble, hypnotic and low. It vibrates through his chest into Ben's back as he speaks. "I'll do the talking. You just listen and make those pretty noises I like."

Ben has to keep a clear head, but with Gamble's hands almost meeting in his most sensitive spots, it's proving hard to stay in the room. Eyes closed, his mind drifts to Caleb naturally and the refuge is calming. _Maybe this is all I can get_ , he thinks. A simile. A half-fantasy. _Maybe it'll be enough_.

"Okay," he says, and it's too late to back out now, not now that he's admitted he doesn't want to. "Talk."

Gamble's natural smirk broadens into a grin he can feel through his shirt. "Had a feeling about you when we first met. 'There's a man who knows what he wants'. Oh, you're a wily one, no two ways about it. Careful, too. At night, with your own hand on you, thinking about him. I bet you stay real quiet, gasping into pillows. Ah," he says, as Ben jolts, skewered by facts that Gamble _cannot_ know, not for certain, and yet.

"Perhaps you want him to hear you. Perhaps you listen to him, when he lays hands on himself. Ear against the wall, aye," he tsks, "and you never say a word after."

It's clairvoyant to a disturbing degree. Sunday last, day of grace, Ben had been pulled from his afternoon reading by a groan he thought he'd half imagined before it returned with a telltale sound of rhythmic slapping. The door to Caleb's room had been closed. Ben had sat, frozen, mouth dry until the end, too scared to move in case the creak of his chair gave him away. Once Caleb had cleaned up and dropped onto the couch for the game, Ben hadn't been able to look at him once, despite the attempts at conversation from his roommate.

The memory grinds his hips into Gamble's hand, against the desk. Gamble's arm is toned, laying a heavy claim across his groin.

"Where is it you want him? What makes you shiver? Can't be a hand would be enough after all this time. Bobbing for apples on his knees? No," a slight chuckle, "that's not it. You're too hungry for that, Tallmadge. It's not his knees on the ground. It's yours."

The images come, fast and violent: Ben holding Caleb's legs for anchorage, lapping at Caleb's cock as he murmurs encouragement between gasps. The suddenness of it overwhelms him.

Ben blurts out, " _Stop_."

Gamble stills and withdraws his hands. With them, the images fade and Ben scrambles after them.

"No, wait!"

He's suspended in silence before Gamble breaks it in a low voice.

"Ask me nicely."

Ben swallows a bitter taste. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Please keep going."

"Is that what you'd tell him?" The warmth of his hands returns, completing the scene alongside his voice. "Tell me what you'd tell him."

"Please..." Can it sound any needier out loud than it does in his head? "Touch me."

"You'll have to do better than that," Gamble says, and his fingers circle the button on Ben's trousers. "Tell him what you want."

"I want you to—"

 _Say it, Ben_. In a dizzying moment, Ben feels it made real. Hot breath on his neck and the tickle of a bird's nest beard, Caleb's throaty voice, the strain of Ben's arms pinned above his head. The line between fantasy and reality blurs as Ben pleads,

" _Make me raw._ "

Gamble works the button open with just a thumb and forefinger and jerks the zipper open, palming Ben through his briefs. Ben can feel him tracing the outline of his bulge to the tip, circling it when he finds the damp spot of precum.

"I can see it, now," Gamble mumbles, in a storyteller's sing-song. "He's got his hands on you. He's all over you and you twitching beneath him, panting like a dog. At his command til he's had you any which way he wants. He could have you on all fours if he wanted, couldn't he? Wouldn't that be a sight for sore eyes, you as his pet."

Somewhere in there Gamble's hand has slipped into his breeches, and he's working Ben's head roughly. His hands are calloused, and it's easy to replace them with Caleb's, roughened from working the docks. A shift and Gamble's other hand pulls at the trouser band, slipping past it between his cheeks. Ben is well and truly at his mercy.

Ben doesn't know what's worse. How good it feels or how fantastical it is. Caleb wouldn't touch him like this. He hasn't. Ten fucking years Ben's watched his friend's every move and seen nothing but honest intentions in hands that lift oil drums for a living. He's a gentle man, respectful to strangers and friends alike, and it kills Ben that all he wants is to have those hands spread him and make him scream himself hoarse against his shoulder. He never used to feel so feral. He could blame the long hours at work. He could blame a dozen things. But right now, an itch is being scratched and it might be the guilt but it's so damn good. 

The teasing circles between his cheeks and the roughness in front has Ben flushed and breathing heavily. Gamble's plastered on his side from chest to knee. Ben wants to tilt his head back, take support as his heart starts to run and he slips further into the fantasy—but he jerks back, remembering where he is.

"Get on with it," he rasps, and Gamble's hand starts pumping.

"You know, Tallmadge." His voice growls. "I've watched you since I got here. Every day you show up in that blue suit like you have all the answers. I've been meaning to claim you since I first saw you, and whatever else, you can't deny it's my hand on you now when you're thinking about his mouth, and his beard and his cock, getting wet to my words telling you how he'd pin you and spread you 'til you got sore from begging—"

Gamble twists his wrist and pushes a finger into Ben's tight circle, pinching and rolling the sensitive ring of skin. Ben cries out and he pitches forward as his knees buckle, slamming his hands on the desk.

"—and it's my fingers that have you close to breaking when you think of him sliding into you and bending you in half 'til all you see are stars."

He can almost see stars now.

"Will you be praying? At the end? 'God, make it stop, make it never stop—'"

With a cry unrecognizable to himself, Ben's body unleashes a torrent, chest heaving and eyes squeezed shut. The black nearly claims him as he comes. The surge rides out and Ben near collapses onto Gamble's knee, expertly wedged in between his legs. Gamble hands wring out the last of his climax, almost soothing, before slipping away suddenly, leaving a jarring absence. 

And then Gamble has stepped back and Ben just catches himself, elbow hitting the desk hard as he topples forward, struggling to get his feet under him. It takes a few moments to get himself together enough to stand.

When Ben turns, he sees Gamble looking him over with an indecipherable smile. Ben's cheeks are rouged, his pupils are blown, and his shirt barely covers his still-unbuttoned and soiled trousers. Gamble pulls out a handkerchief—an actual cloth handkerchief—and wipes his hands on it before casually tossing it to Ben.

"Clean yourself up, Tallmadge. We're at work."

With that, he brushes the scar on his cheek and turns neatly, ever the professional, leaving Ben to lean against his desk and close his eyes.

\---

He can't face the apartment and checks into a hotel. The sounds of Friday night happen around him and he blocks them out with a TV documentary that he neither sees nor remembers the next day.

He takes time to return to the flat on Saturday, polishing off errands he's been putting off for weeks. When he arrives home, the place is empty with only a cursory note from Caleb on the table.

_Got a fishing job. Back Monday night. Beer in the fridge._

Ben stares at the careful scrawl. His stomach knots into a tangle he doesn't have the energy to pull apart.

 _Good for him_ , he thinks dimly, and spends the weekend working his way through the six-pack.

\---

Monday comes, grey and cool. Ben is wearing a blue suit. He'll be damned if that changes now. He composes himself during the morning assembly and takes in the assembled heads of department without a flicker of recognition. He gives a presentation. He signs papers. He holds a team meeting.

At 10:30 am he walks into the office kitchen, past Gamble, and pours himself a cup of coffee.

"Good morning," Gamble says.

Ben doesn't respond.

"Ah, that's right. You prefer it when I talk."

Ben sips the coffee slowly. It's hot, too hot for his liking.

"You're tense, for a Monday," Gamble observes. "Disappointing weekend? First times are never what you expect."

Ben stares fixedly at the cupboard.

"Don't tell me he still hasn't fucked you."

Gamble's smile doesn't need to be seen to be heard.

"Not like you to flub the initiative, Tallmadge. You're not lacking for inspiration—"

Ben slams down the coffee mug and grabs Gamble's shirt collar in a fist.

"Stay the _fuck_ out of my head, Gamble."

The grin that oozes over Gamble's scarred cheek pulls him back from the rushing in his ears. He's being recklessly stupid. The door is wide open and the next person that passes by could ruin Ben's career. _And yet for a moment there he could have pushed the man's face through glass_ —

Dazed, he turns to leave, coffee forgotten. He makes it to the door before Gamble says,

"I only go where I'm invited."

Back in his office, Ben sits and bites into his fist.

\---

Dinner that night comes out of a box, done on the stove. A slow simmer that only adds to the brain fog.

Ben stands against the counter when the apartment door opens like a firework.

"Wouldn't believe the shit I got from the dockmaster today," as shoes fly off and a coat narrowly lands on the hook. This before Caleb even closes the door, which he does with a slam. "Wasnae even my fault, captain couldn't get the paperwork together—"

And he stops because Ben has looked at him and Caleb's never seen him with that expression on his face.

"I can't take it," Ben says.

Credit where it's due, Caleb comes to rest in a heartbeat. He's always been able to read a room.

"What? Take what?"

"You, living here," Ben says. "And us not—I can't take it."

For all it's worth, it has to be enough, because Ben can't bring himself to say another word. Caleb's quiet as he puts it together, which he does with a "Christ, Ben."

Then he wails. "Why didn't you _say?_ "

"I couldn't—I couldn't bear it if—what if you weren't willing?"

" _Willing?_ I'm plenty willing! Ben, for feck's—have you eaten?"

"What?" Ben casts about, confused, then realizes he was making supper. "No, I'm not hungry—"

Caleb reaches over and switches off the stove with a click. He grabs Ben's unresisting hand and leads him down the corridor into his room. Ben's been in here a few times, but it feels like another world as Caleb pushes him gently to sit on the mattress. Ben watches, listless, as Caleb shuts the door and opens a window for the breeze.

"I wasn't sure—"

"You could've _asked_."

"I didn't want to push you into something you didn't want—"

"The hell would you know about what I want, Tallboy," Caleb says, dragging his desk chair to sit across from Ben. The moment fills with the weight of the last two months. Face to face, now, with nowhere to escape to, Ben feels the fire he's been carrying crumble to ash.

"You mean, you..."

"Been watching you for ages, Ben, not that you've noticed."

Caleb's laughing at him. He might be laughing at him. His eyes are much warmer than Gamble's and maybe it's not such a bad thing if he is.

God, he's been a fool.

"Honestly, I didn't think it could ever happen for real. Seemed easier never to ask." There's no point in hiding anything now, even if Ben can't look up from his own hands. "And I wasn't sure... in what way I wanted it."

The crinkle in Caleb's eyes softens, and he reaches for Ben's knee, giving it a squeeze and a rub that sends heat rocketing up his thigh.

"I'm in no rush. We can take it slow," Caleb says, then frowns at the grimace. "What?"

"I don't want it slow," Ben mumbles, flushing red.

And with that, everything is out in the open.

"Oh."

 _Oh god_ , he's blushing too, now, and Ben tries to get to his feet.

"S'fine, we can forget it—"

Caleb presses down on his shoulders and Ben has to look up at him for once. "None of that. I'm not forgetting shit."

"I don't want you to feel like a piece of meat—"

Caleb snort laughs. "Not likely."

"We don't have to do it right away—" but Caleb pushes him back onto the sheets and he bounces gently, air and excuses rushing out of him. Caleb clambers onto the bed and crawls on top of him, bringing his elbows on either side of his head. He smells like fish and sweat and close quarters and Ben wants to lick the salt from every pore.

Caleb nips at Ben's parted lips, too brief.

"Don't overthink it," he says.

"Okay. I won't."

This close to drowning in Caleb's eyes, it might even be true. Caleb takes the promise with another kiss, a press that hesitates only for a second before probing deeper with a gasp. Their mouths meet and part, sucking air greedily before exploring each other further. Ben breaks it off to flick his tongue under Caleb's ear and whisper,

 _"Make me yours._ "

And under Caleb's hands, with Caleb's words, Ben submits. Finally, at peace.


End file.
